Twisting Up the Lines
by southern cross
Summary: Vince had never needed to make room for anyone else; Orwell had never wanted too.  All that is about to change as they get closer to what they want and each other.
1. Vince

The comments made about Orwell at the Carnival and who would or wouldn't miss her got my muse to sit up and pay attention. I love these two together, Summer and David ooze chemistry, and I adore this show. So I'm going to try and fill in some little holes, twist and turn things around to fill my need for more hotness between these two. Oh, and if anyone has a strong stomach check David out in Storm Warning, amazing horror flick and he's very good at being very bad! Let me know what you think. I own nothing and mean no harm.

* * *

More than once that night and now half way through the next day the thought circled around in his head. He knew what it was, a deep truth, and it should not be there.

Orwell would be missed if she were gone, Vince would miss her. The thought was forbidden. Just how much he would, could, miss her sent a shock of guilt straight up his spine.

Dana had been all the female he had needed. As a couple they had made friends with other couples, male and female. And of course he had his circle of guys and she had her girlfriends. As archaic as it might have sounded Vince had always subscribed to the notion that men and women could not really be 'just friends'.

In the short, intense amount of time that he had known her Orwell had become more than an acquaintance, which is all he had ever let any woman other than Dana become. Vince trusted Orwell with his life, his secrets, but most importantly with the lives of the people he had left behind.

More than the trust he had gotten to know _her_; a result of living in close quarters and working together to boot. Vince knew when she had spent too many hours in front of the monitor; or when her thoughts were outrunning the results she wanted. The tells he read on her, habits, rituals, the understanding; that is what convinced Vince that she was a friend.

A rebellious little voice whispered that she was more than a real friend. That little voice had pushed him to the training room two hours ago. He started a grueling workout, punishing his body for the thoughts he should not be having. Dana was his wife, Orwell was; he had no name for what she was and that only angered him further.

There had been no ignoring the look on her face as he had passed her in the small excuse for a kitchen. At the stove, she had water boiling, a light purple box in hand. Her calming tea, something uncovered online had upset her. He hadn't stopped to ask her about it, he should have, no he really shouldn't have. Biting back the concern that pushed through the indecision he punched the bag harder. Despite her own feelings, he had seen her look, the calm study, she had tracked him across the room with those big eyes and he knew without a doubt that she knew he was upset; more than that she knew he was thinking of _them_ and would give him the space he needed.

Why did she know him so well? Why did he know her so well? How had this happened? The punching bag had no answers. His knuckles were screaming under the white tape. The muscle in his arms ache, tightening as they are worked to the edge and then beyond, the voice was back; asking if Dana had known him so well? Had there been looks on her face he'd read and understood in under a moment?

Anger bubbled up in his chest. This was not how it was supposed to be. The Cape, the mission, _her_ none of it was part of the plan. Vince had never thought much about the route he wanted his life to take; he hadn't had a plan, until the path had been so drastically altered. Dana, Trip, maybe another child and a new job which would have brought new challenges and new opportunities; that was all the start of a plan he needed. There would have been some travelling in the summers, they had talked about showing Trip the country, just getting behind the wheel and picking a road.

That plan, a plan he hadn't really owned or accepted, was lost to him now. Vince wanted to hope, had to hope he would clear his name one day and make a new plan. He held tighter to the hope of talking to his son tighter than he'd ever held onto anything. One day he would see his son again as Vince Faraday, not as the Cape or some nameless face passing on the street, but as a Father to a Son. The rest of it though, he sagged to the mat, exhaustion setting in as the weight of what would never be hit all at once. Those plans, that life, those people were gone.

Honestly, and Vince had sworn he lived too many lies to lie to himself, how could he leave this part of him behind. The Cape had changed him as much as he was changing Palm City. The people at the Carnival, Max, both the good parts and the bad ones were a part of his life now. They were a part of who he was now. Vince was different now, harder than he had been during active duty, because to have what he had, to have it so close and not be able to touch; it had changed him.

Dana wouldn't know him now, not really, not like Orwell did. There it was, the thought he had been circling all night. The truth he had tried to pound away with his fists. Orwell knew the man he was now, the good and the bad. She had seen the dark parts and the light bits and had stood closer to him for it. Vince didn't know how Dana would react to him now. Would she stand behind the decisions he had made, would make? Probably not and he wasn't sure he wanted her too.

Orwell understood the compromises he was making because there was a streak of similarity inside of them, a dark broken thing inside of her that had reared up in him. The secrets in her life bugged him, especially when she knew _everything_ about him. If he wasn't one hundred percent confident she would confide in him in her own time he would push the issue much, much harder.

Once again there were the blurry lines in the sand. Who he was versus who he is and how the people in both chapters of his life might intersect? Would Dana understand the place Orwell had in his life? Would Vince understand himself when someone stepped into that role for Dana? Bile rose in his throat, it spoke to the strength of what he had with Orwell if even imagining some man knowing Dana that well made his hands itch to hurt someone.

Complication after revelation, his brain hurt from the patterns that were weaving inside. And then she was there, an outline in the doorway. He made out a bottle of water in her hand, a towel in the other. In his haste to pound out the little voice he had forgotten both.

"Thanks," He smiled as she handed them over. She didn't reply, didn't need to, the small smile on her face was all he needed. From a pocket of her sweater she withdrew three white pills. At that moment Vince felt the pounding strain as his head voiced its discomfort.

This time when he looked up to take the pills he did not look away. He held her eyes, seeing her, wishing he could see past the walls and into the secrets that hurt her. The concern she had for him was clear, she was worried about him. His behavior these past few (hours) (minutes) he'd lost track of the time, shamed him. There was enough on both their plates without him losing such a handle on himself. His apology was as awkward as his explanation and no easier it seemed for her to hear.

And yet the worry faded from her look, the tightness eased around her mouth. It might have been enough for the old Vince, but it wasn't enough for _him_. So he looked harder, closer, saw the other smaller signs of hesitation that stretched the distance between them and hated it once found. Vince felt the sudden and fierce conviction rise up inside of his chest; he didn't want any distance between them; ever.

"I would miss you," He spoke plainly, nothing in his voice but truth. Orwell stepped back, shock and horror written all over her face. Vince stood slowly, his sore body protesting the motion, but he could feel her pulling away. Defenses were coming online and he knew he was about to lose her.

Stepping forward for every one she took back he ignored the negative shake of her head and pressed his words further.

"You're my friend-"not for the first time he wished he knew her real name, he stuttered over the-"Orwell, you mean something to me."

Her head was still denying the words and she had run out of room to back up. Not relenting he stepped close, entered her personal space and put a hand on the wall behind her head. Another voice was screaming in his head, warning him that he was defining the blurry line and what lay beyond that was a slippery slope. Vince ignored the warning, pushed aside the guilt, and went with his gut, his heart.

"I would miss you if something happened to you," The emotions in her eyes were volatile. Anger, such anger at him for the words, coupled with an ache so profound he could almost taste the loneliness on each quickened exhale of her breath. They were almost there; Vince could feel the distance between them receding the more he pushed.

"It's you and me," No names this time, they were beyond them.

"I promise I'm not going to let anything happen to you," She gasped at the vow; but the effect was already devastating, her walls crumbled. Vince caught her in his arms as the overload kicked in. He wasn't quite sure how they had ended up _here_, but he wrapped her small frame into a fierce hug and accepted that maybe they were always headed here. So Vince held her tight to him, she didn't seem to mind the sweat on his arms or the strength of his hold and that was good because he wasn't quite ready to let her go.


	2. Orwell

They have me hooked! Also I know they probably don't but I love the idea of them crashing together in the lair, she probably has her own place somewhere, but it suits my needs for them to co-habitat; hopefully that words for you. Let me know what you think? I own nothing and mean no harm.

* * *

None of the answers she was seeking today were coming easily to her. Pushing away from the keyboard she indulged in a moment's relaxation as the chair rolled across the floor. Away from the distraction of her computer her thoughts circled around directly to the source of her problems. Work wasn't going well because she couldn't focus and she couldn't focus because of _him_.

Put logically, the thoughts stretching out in linear progression before, she felt she finally had a firm grasp of the situation. Having identified the problem the next step would be to fix it except every time she tried to move on to the actual fixing the validity of the problem slipped through her fingers.

A problem trapped in a loop. Rising, her work abandoned, she went for her coat and keys and purse. Speed and space would help, so she would drive for the answers.

There was a hitch in her chest as she locked the door; she had deliberately left no note. Vince would be upset, pissed, she smirked. How very like him to disappear with no warning, she would let him have a taste of what his routine did to her. The smirk faded as she realized that what came on strongest when he wandered off was worry. Every time he darted out into the night, head tucked under that grey hood, her heart clenched and her stomach seized.

Their missions, his hours prowling as The Cape gave her only a passing edge. Vince was who she worried about on the streets. The Cape could take care of himself. Having worked herself into such a state she stomped to the stash of cars she kept at the garage a block over. Never mind blending in, she was annoyed and aggravated and she needed some distance.

The half dozen options before her were not as varied as she had once been accustomed to. The hours she had spent in the vast garage on the estate were a warm spot in her otherwise cold childhood. She settled on the raw muscle of her Road Runner, the paint was a deep shiny black, the lime green racing stripes made her smile. She loved this car, two blocks away she remembered how he had coo'd over the sleek lines and high gloss shine. Of course this would be his favorite of her cars. Her palm smacked the steering wheel; hard.

Vince was everywhere these days. Working together, living together, they were so in tuned to each other it was driving her nuts. Alone she had accomplished so much. Alone she had escaped the abuse, the hell that had been 'home'. Alone she had started amassing the wealth, laying the foundation she would need to roll out her plan. And it was alone that she had planned to take down Peter Fleming.

Only now she wasn't alone. She had taken one look at the man fighting back and impetuously decided maybe alone wasn't enough? What she been thinking? Now he was everywhere, into everything, and she didn't know where she even fit in anymore.

The phone on the seat next to her rang to life. No picture appeared on the screen, nothing even as personal as a name or initials, but she knew it was him. Who else would it be?

Ignoring the ringing she pressed harder on the gas pedal and turned the music up louder. The specially modified radar detector gave live updates every fifteen seconds of police in range. Getting caught would be a problem she did not need.

The engine roared as she pushed harder, the vibration in the wheel forcing a white knuckle grip. Her hands would be sore tomorrow, like her jaw used to be after a bad night had set her teeth grinding. Still the pain was a small price to pain for the relief these miles were giving her.

Ten more miles and her thoughts were finally evening out. Maybe she could do it, separate, compartmentalize what had come in to her life that she was unsure of. A dodgy plan, as far as her plans went; ignore what she couldn't fix. Leaving it alone fought against every bone in her body, but it might be worth, she could feel the weight slipping off her shoulders even as she considered it.

Again the phone rang, startling her, the now familiar numbers as clear as his name would have been lit up the screen. Vince, again; the guilt was creeping back up on her. Picturing the scene she realized she had left her computer on; the monitor too. And she might not have properly set the alarm, or at all.

Vince would have come home, in, in, in, not home, to find her gone and he would have panicked. She would have done the same thing, had done the same thing. Swallowing thickly she pushed back what she knew he would have shown on his face. The man did not have a poker face.

"Crap," Her voice startled her. Never one to talk unnecessarily, Vince was the one who talked out loud, going over ideas and theories to no one in particular. There was usually nothing orderly to the ramblings of people who talked out loud. Practice had always seemed like tremendous waste of energy. One too many times she had caught herself staring at him as he stood staring at his damn boards. Hours would pass, his back stiff with tension, knots forming in his neck. She knew when he was really on to something when the mumblings got clearer, and whole actual streams of consciousness tumbled out.

More facts she had no business knowing. Vince likes to talk through his problems, just like he liked to fight through his emotions and argue through his loneliness. Those personal details were none of her business; she had no right to that information. Except hadn't he said that he cared about her, "Stupid man."

She rolled her eyes, details of that afternoon slipping past the walls she had put up blocking out the entire exchange. Well maybe she hadn't blocked it off as well as she could have. Details kept slipping in unexpectedly at the most inconvenient of times. The smell of his skin right before she fell asleep, the tight grip of his arms around her as she was rinsing her hair or the rough emotion in his voice as he spoke _those words_ right before she turns on her computer.

Without asking he had told her how much he cared for her, and that they were friends. Friends, she tried to remember the last time she had had a real friend. No names came to mind, it was an embarrassing thought. She wiggled in the seat; her nerves were getting to her.

There had never been a need for friends, she had been doing fine on her own, but normal people had friends, girlfriends to gossip with, and boyfriends to kiss. Neither had been present in her life. She had survived and she had overcome and now she was fighting back; and it was enough.

'Had been enough', the little voice was back and reminding her about Vince. He was her _friend_, he was the reason she couldn't work, he _cared_ and was the reason she couldn't focus. Abruptly she slowed the car, pulling over onto the shoulder. Vince had become part of her life, part of her, she couldn't ignore that anymore. He cared about her and would protect her and good God damn she cared about him, had stretched her abilities beyond what was possible to protect him.

"Double crap," She cared about him, too much. The ringing started up just as the revelation hit; him again.

She sighed, her hand moving to the phone and she picked it up carefully, still unsure whether or not she would answer. The third ring made her jump; she had forgotten that the vibration was also on.

Distracted she hit the green button. Vince was suddenly there with her filling up the car with his anger and frustrations all rolled into questions and yelling. The smile was on her lips only because she knew he couldn't see.

"I'm sorry," She didn't know if he had heard her over his ranting, or if it would have even helped, he was that mad.

"Vince-"he cut her off, she wasn't sure she had ever heard him so angry. There was no disputing that he was worried about her, he could barely contain himself. A question crept up on her, could his temper handle something even more dangerous than fear?

He had stopped long enough for her to squeeze in a word, "I know, I do, and I'm coming home."

Home, she had said. She cringed, the place they shared was more home than any place she had ever been. That was not good. What was worse was how much she cared for him, more than anyone she ever known before.

The car handled the u-turn with ease; she gave an abrupt good-bye and tossed the phone into the empty seat. There would be one hell of a reprimand waiting for her when she got back. He would be pacing now, watching the door. He would be too agitated for his punching bag, too good of a man to go for a drink.

So she would face what he dished out; it was only fair.

The thought that settled her most, the one that held her as he raved and ranted, the thought that what upset him tonight was in no way compared to what he would dish out when he found out the truth. And he would figure it out; he was good like that.

After she had taken her lecture with a stiff chin, he stalked off, to the bag no doubt; she pushed her chair over to her desk. Thoughts clear and focused on her work because she had decided that he wouldn't have to figure it out, the confidence made her smile, he wouldn't figure it out because she was going to tell him.


	3. Stupid Man

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed I wasn't sure how it was going to be received but your words were most encouraging. Also I adore this chapter. I am an angst girl, and this chapter is chock full of it, so I hope you all enjoy it. Lastly my muse was most excited by David playing 'Razer' and she's waking up the plot bunnies. It's the accent, love that he got to use his real one. I don't know if where I want to go with those ideas will come into play with this story but there is definitely something brewing. So please let me know what you think of this chapter. I own nothing and mean no harm.

* * *

Another close call, too close, his adrenaline had spiked and the crash was coming. Slowly, his ribs were going to hurt even worse tomorrow, he took off the cape and dropped it. He was struggling with the chest plate when he felt her there her fear and anger mingled as she stood in the doorway, watching him.

Vince glanced up, briefly, his eyes found hers, his fingers fumbled over the clasps. She held his gaze, longer than she ever had, it was new this connection they had. Well the extra layers of connection they had. His fingers stilled as their look lingered, she wanted to say something, there was a tight line in her neck that was telling. Vince was about to get ripped a new one and he probably deserved it.

What was a 'close call' was more like he had almost died. That's what he was seeing in her eyes, he had almost died and she hadn't been sure she would see him again. The guilt washed over him.

"Look-"she cut him off with a wave of her hand, moving in closer her eyes cut to the blood on his arm. The cut burned now, he could honestly say it hadn't hurt til just this moment, now the throbbing was welcome.

Orwell worked methodically, her movements stiff, there nothing soft in her touch; not that he deserved any less, but there was something off. Vince ducked his head, trying to catch her eye, but she was quicker. Averting her gaze better even than those first awkward days together. The irritation rose, they were past that, at least he thought they were. If she was mad why didn't she yell or curse or smack him a good one, right across the jaw; he deserved it. The silence, the cold distance while she helped him was infinitely worse.

Christ he was stupid. The tip had been bullshit at best, a Chess trap at the worst, and she had asked-demanded-begged him not to go, to wait until she got back and could do some digging. Patience was not something he had in reserve anymore, so of course he'd gone, no back-up, no plan, and it had all gone to shit the second he had shown up. So yeah, he had earned her disdain, he just didn't have to like it.

Free of the get-up he sagged against the desk, the fight had taken even more out of him than he'd thought. "Shirt off," she still wouldn't look at him and he swallowed back the snarky retort that yesterday might have made her laugh. He'd fucked things up royally. As he struggled out of the black t-shirt she walked to the bathroom, his eyes tracked her, looking for some sign, some slight crack in her armor that he could work with; but her walls were good and up.

The gash on his left bicep protested as the fabric peeled away, fresh blood began to run down his arm. Too close, "You're going to need stitches." The sight of the blood had sucked what little color she had, and he might have seen her sway a little before she composed herself. First-aid kit in hand she walked over to him, he watched her, he knew he was staring, knew if she looked up she would see the apology, the shame in his eyes, but she wouldn't, didn't look up.

More of that professional distance as she lined up the tools she would need, not bothering to remove the small bottle of local anesthetic, she knew he would refuse. Yesterday she would have argued with him, called him a brute, a tough guy an idiot for refusing help. Was that his problem, did he want so much to do everything on his own that he would hurt himself rather than ask for help?

Orwell had his back, he trusted her completely, considered her a friend, a great one, and still, he had run off earlier without waiting or asking for her and he'd known in his gut something was off. He came to the conclusion before the first stitch went in that he was an idiot. Despite that, and he knew she knew that, had probably known it longer, she cleaned his wound, readied a stitch and put him back together without complaint.

Maybe it was the delicate way she handled his injury, the care she gave to his skin and the lack of hesitation before she jabbed a needle full of antibiotics, but he had convinced himself that they were OK, she was OK.

He was more of an asshole than he thought.

"I can't-"her voice was wet, breaking, he stood, turning to her. With her back to him he couldn't see what she was doing, he didn't even know if she was talking to him. He stepped close looking over her shoulder, without those impossible heels she come only to his shoulder.

Bright red coated her fingers; his blood on her hands.

The sight sucked all the air right out of his lungs. Her movements were frantic, she was trying to wipe it off with the gauze, but it was a used piece, adding more blood even as she struggled to wipe it off.

"Hey-"he reached around her, took her wrists. Orwell froze, every part of her that touched him went absolutely still.

"I thought you were dead," she accused. During the fight he had lost his com and hadn't thought to take his cell before he left. They had been out of communication the twenty minutes it had taken him to get home.

"Dead," the pain in her voice tore at him. This was his fault. She tried to pull away, she twisted her wrists, he held on tighter. When she tried to step away he stepped closer.

"No, no, no, I can't do this," she was crying now, he'd _never_ seen her cry.

"Let me go," she insisted and he knew he should, he should, but he was afraid if he did he might lose her.

"Please-"he wanted to apologize, to explain, but she was struggling now. The still in her had transformed and she putting everything she had into getting away; away from him.

They ended up twisted, he pinned one wrist against her back the other against his chest. Her nails dug into his bare skin and he hissed in pain. the next moment her eyes were on him, the fight intensifying between them.

"You said you cared, you'd miss me, you were my friend," she spat at him, an accusation, "And then I thought you were dead. You took off, no back-up, nothing and I was here, _here_, waiting and worrying and there was nothing-"she stopped. Every word was a punch to his heart, it was his fault. He'd hurt her like this. When she closed her eyes a tear slipped down each cheek. Orwell was _crying_ because of him.

"I can't do this," she whispered. The meaning hadn't registered, he almost lost his hold on her.

"Let me go," she pleaded. "You just go do what you need to, let yourself get killed, BUT I CAN'T DO THIS."

Vince panicked, well and truly, he couldn't let her, he couldn't lose his Orwell. The grip on her wrists had to hurt, there would probably be bruises later.

"Hey, hey," he managed to twist her, they were chest to chest, her arms were behind his back. The tears were falling freely now. God how could he have been so careless with her. He knew how much an admission it had been for her that afternoon. When he had come home to an empty room and her electronics still on he had freaked out. When she had finally called him, had whispered her apologies over the phone, the small 'I would miss you too' had been a huge admission. Still, knowing that he was as, or more, important to her he had been careless.

Today, right now, this second he would stop being so damn reckless.

"I was an idiot Orwell," he hoped she could, would, hear him. "I was stupid and selfish and wrong," she was crying openly now, the fight had drained out of her, she sagged against him. He held her hands loosely, gripping them both with one hand, his injured left arm rose, rough palm cupping her wet cheek.

Closer to her physically, emotionally than he had been to anyone in months, Vince struggled to keep _his_ tears in check. This was about her, not him, not this time. He pressed his head against hers, what would he do without her?

"Never again," he promised, she shook her head, not wanting to hear it he guessed. He didn't let it deter him. His thumb caught the next tear that fell. "I promise," sealed the words with a kiss to her forehead. It felt strange, twisting his lips in that way, he had always been an affectionate person and this was the first kiss he'd given in such a long time.

"You're all I've got," she pressed her face against his chest, his hand slipped through the thick wave of hair to cradle the back of her head. "There's no way I'm going to make it through this without you," honesty was what he was going with.

"We'll plan and organize and do it right from now on. I'll plan my stupidity out carefully from now on." Yesterday she would have rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. Today she snuggled that much closer to him.

"I can't do this on my own," he really couldn't, "And there's no one else I would want by my side."

That admission was as unexpected as they came, but he meant every word of it. Orwell peeked up at him wide eyes disbelieving. This was it, the moment, "Please don't leave me. I don't deserve you, I know that you're brilliant and loyal and I've been nothing more than stupid and careless, but I used to be those things." And he had, Vince Faraday had been a great cop, and a man who had walked the line that would serve, protect, and get him home to his family. At least he had been, he had lost that, had lost his old life because of it.

Orwell was giving him a second chance. She was the glue that was holding their plans together and he had to start acting like someone who deserved it.

As he spoke, he watched her watching him, for every bit of honesty he gave he thought of three more questions he had for her. The restraint came from strength he didn't know he had, but he held back. There would be time later, if there was a later.

Her face was open, all her emotions when she revealed them he could read in an instant. It was what she was thinking at any given time that kept him on edge. And right now she wasn't sharing much. He still threw it all in.

"You and me," the question hung between them. When she didn't answer he tightened his hold. He really, really didn't know if he could let her go. "We'll, I'll do it right this time."

That was all he had, this life he was living, she was all he had. Once again the air sucked from his gut. Max and the Carnival, they had helped him, given him the tools he would need in this fight, but their choices kept them separate. Vince hadn't been joking when he told Max they would end up at cross-purposes. He didn't relish the thought of fighting them, but he would if he had too. Orwell was on a whole other level. She was someone he respected, cared for, so yes, she was all he had right now.

"Please," the emotion choked up the words in his throat. Orwell blinked up at him. Her mouth opened once and then closed. Shit, shit, shit, this was it. His breathing went shallow, his heart rate flared, she was leaving him. The open mouth protest died as she spoke.

"Okay Vince," he wasn't sure he'd ever heard his name quite like that, he filed that bit of information away for later. "We do this right?" she asked.

He struggled to keep up, his thoughts racing, "Of course, yes, you're the boss," he grinned down at her. She nodded slowly and he knew he might have just created a monster. He was fine with that.

"Then we can do this together," she nodded, "I promise," it was ridiculous how happy he was hearing her say that. If he didn't think she would absolutely freak out he would have picked her up in celebration.

He settled for a bone crushing hug, she squeaked in protest, her face smashing against his chest, but she eased into his hold. Releasing her hands she didn't hesitate to wrap them around his waist. Vince had always been affectionate, but the affection he showed Dana and Tripp had never been taboo. This though, this hugging and touching and just Orwell, he didn't know if it was right or wrong anymore. He didn't know if he could give her up if it was.

She was all he had and he was not letting her go.


	4. Secrets No More

I'm pretty devastated that there won't be anymore eps. I haven't watched the last one yet, making the goodness last, but I am dedicating this chapter to all the Cape fans who have taken time to read my story and drop me a review. Thanks, and hopefully as fans we can keep a little bit of the Cape alive in our fic. I really liked writing this chapter, Orwell was whispering to me all about the life she led, don't know if its canon enough for you guys, but it's what I think best fits with my girl. Please enjoy and let me know what you think.

* * *

There was no other logical explanation, Max Mallini, or whatever his name was knew, she should probably do some digging, should have already worked up files, real files on all of the carnies. Her words were twisting around each other painfully as her scattered thoughts sped up and away from her.

Max knew her secret, he had looked at her, reassessed her in a cold and calculating way and she knew he knew who her Father was. Would he tell Vince?

Her stomach dropped, of course he would, and then Vince would hate her and he would leave. And she would be alone; again. Why hadn't she told him?

Weeks had passed since she had decided to do it. They had been working better together, finding a rhythm, striking at ARK effectively. She had stalled, coming up with gossamer excuses as to why she shouldn't or couldn't and now someone else had taken the choice from her.

Her feet began to pace the length of the floor in front of her desk. There was no plan, nothing was coming to her either, it was out of her hands; she hated it. Vince had invited her along that morning; he had training to do and had insisted she get away from her computer. The Carnies weren't the best or worst people she knew but they were real and Vince worried how little time she spent with people.

She had wanted to tell him that spending time with him was more than enough. He gave her more than she had ever had. But then she would have had to tell why and so she stalled.

So Max had tracked her around the big ring with his eyes, his phone had rung, and she had watched him learn her secret. Running had been automatic. She'd gotten in her car and gone straight home, stranding Vince and probably freaking him out, but he hadn't called or texted, she would have answered. His silence was damming, she had lost him.

This was why she worked alone, lived alone, because people disappointed you (he had promised) or you disappoint people (it had been her secret to tell). Truly there was no one to blame in the end but herself.

The glance she took at her phone, there was still no light blinking with an incoming call or text, was the 336th she'd taken since she had put it on her desk, he could find a new home base easily, the place she had come to think of as home had been his first.

Her thoughts had so totally taken over that she jumped at the sound of his voice.

"I think we need to talk," he was here. She blinked up at him, not really believing that he was standing in the doorway. Vince had come back, the joy swelled in her chest and she really had to work at biting back the smile. Even scowling at her with his arms crossed she was happy to see him.

"You came back," not what she had intended to say. Not by a long-shot and he seemed just as surprised.

"Had to steal Rollo's ride, I don't he's going to be amused tomorrow," she smiled, thinly, up at him. He didn't return it, the look on his face, the tension in his frame screamed at her; he was not amused. Not by her actions, nor by her assumption that he had abandoned her.

"You didn't call," it was weak, very, and she knew it, he did too, his jaw clenched painfully and she winced. He only ground his teeth when he was really, really on edge. Playing it carefully would be smart now.

Unfortunately being around Vince Faraday had made it harder and harder for her to play it smart.

"You had my phone remember," he ground out in response. She knew her jaw dropped, she knew her face was a mask of total and complete shock. Of course she did, stupidly (again) she glanced at her purse and knew exactly where his phone was. He'd handed it to her with a wink and a smile not to tinker with it before heading off to work on some more defensive moves.

Overwhelmed she took a moment, rubbing the tension that had crept up between her eyes.

"Orwell," she froze, for a second he had paused, the name didn't fit on his lips anymore. He was the Cape to her, yes, but he was also Vince. All she had given him in return was 'Orwell'.

His eyes reached for hers across the space between them, "I want you to talk to me now," she knew he wanted to say more insist that she say the words and a big part of her wanted that too. If he pushed and she crumbled she could lay the blame at his feet.

Only he didn't push, this would have to be all her. She nodded in agreement, watched as he moved into the room. He was still wearing the sweats and white tank top he had changed into to workout. Whatever Max had implied, since he hadn't shared whatever he had learned on the phone, Vince had left in a hurry. He wore his trademark hoodie, as much a part of Vince as the silk was to the Cape.

He cleared his throat, her thoughts had wandered, she'd missed him stopping at the big table that divided the room, and he was leaning back against it looking at her. She had blinked and here he stood tense and attentive.

"Might I ask what Max said," Vince eyed her clearly not expecting her to go there, but she had kept her tone level. She had no right to ask it, but she had anyway.

Vince shrugged, "He asked me what I knew about you," his eyes looked through her, "What I really knew." The sad part was that he might know her better than anyone ever had. "He suggested I do some digging, he offered up what he knew."

Here it was, the moment it all unraveled.

"I declined," she let out the breath she had in, her fists uncurled in her lap. He had declined, would this man ever cease in surprising her. "Whatever secrets you have," he did not leave it as a question, it wasn't. "I want you to tell me."

If she wanted too, he didn't say it, but it was implied. Even now after knowing Max knew, that it was big, he giving her an out. That more than anything decided it for her.

Orwell took a long, deep breath. This was it, what they'd had was good, great, and if the truth ended that than she could live with that because they were doing this on their own terms.

"When I told you I didn't know my Mother very well I wasn't lying to you. In her time my Mother had been a prodigy in her own right. When she stepped out on a stage, no one could hold a candle to her."

She remembered watching the dancing as a child, how she wanted just a tiny piece of that talent.

"You know there's a reason people say there's a thin line between genius and insanity and my Mother had straddled that line her whole life." Some days, the dark ones, Orwell wondered how much it would take to push her own mind over.

"When my Father saw her dance in Sydney he was hooked at first glance. Hooked, not in love, never in love. She was seventeen. I've heard the stories, how he chased her across the globe. Performances, rehearsals he hounded her until she relented. It took him a year."

An amazing length of time given how fast he went his toys now.

"See he had gotten it into his head that they were a match. His brains, genius-level, and ruthlessness he had made and doubled his first fortune by nineteen, combined with her beauty and presence; the perfect combination for an heir."

She was aware of the horror on his face, of the clinical way she spoke of it, there was no doubt his own experience in starting a family had been completely different; as was his son's perception of why he was there. Orwell had always known why she was there and it had nothing to do with her, but him. His ego had demanded something and so she had been born.

"Once I was conceived and the plans were in motion his attention began to wane. The reaction she had was not been pleasant. Without the dancing or my Father her lines began to blur. By the time I was born she had lost hold of both."

Of course none of this she had found out until she was much older, she had gone digging into their lives; the need to know why she had been raised by nannies and stayed over the holidays at the expensive boarding schools.

"For years she chased after him, she went back to dancing, pushed harder, her performances were lauded as some of the best of her generation. Nothing worked. See he had chased her and caught her and once he'd gotten what he wanted he didn't want her anymore."

And that was the fact that her Mother had never gotten over.

"No matter what she did it wasn't good enough, she wasn't good enough," and now she wasn't sure who she was talking about anymore because hadn't that desperation emerged in the daughter as well?

"Anyway, by the time I was twelve things had come to a head. Her career was over; a torn ligament in her knee had been the last straw. The line snapped."

No longer could she straddle the line, she had toppled right over and fallen hard.

"There was a parade of nannies and tutors and finally boarding schools, but she was still my Mom," tears were clogging up her throat, it had been a very long time since she had thought of that summer; really thought about it.

"The headmistress had come for me, had taken me to her office and there he was. My Father," the word was a curse on her lips.

"I knew who he was of course, I'd met him twice a year, but this wasn't the right time. There was a man with him; he had beady black eyes and pudgy fingers (they liked to wander during their examinations). In less than a hundred words he told me that my Mother had tried to take her own life and was now locked away. He was there to get a stronger grip on my 'progress' and of course to oversee the testing."

At that she saw Vince let his eyes go wide; he had been surprisingly composed during her tale. His poor jaw would be sore tomorrow, what with all the grinding, but that was Vince. "Testing?" he asked, disbelieving.

"Oh yes," she nodded, getting her story back in place. "A month of psychological and physical testing that would make your toes curl," bitterness filled her voice, hatred was tossed in there too for the nurses and doctors so blinded by the money thrown at them that they had turned a blind eye to the torture they were inflicting.

"By the fourth round of electroshock therapy there were two conclusions reached. My Father was undeniably pleased that my mind had held, had not bent or swayed under the pressure. That incidentally is the only time I think he called me his child and actually meant it. That in the moment that I was spitting out the blood, I'd bitten clear through my tongue, he loved me."

Such liberating memories, truthfully talking about how it had been was rejuvenating. Her reason for fighting against him as hard as she did was validated once again.

"And the second thing," it took her a moment to register the words, the emotion in his voice. She was affecting him, it had been unintentional, she had deliberately stripped the story to the minimum details, had kept things as impersonal as she could. He looked like he was to grab her or kill something; it seemed she had failed spectacularly.

But there was still more, she blinked down at her hands, focusing her thoughts. "The second part, right," she shook her head.

"I saw clearly for the first time strapped down to that bed that he was a monster, my Father was evil," she looked up at Vince his blue eyes grounded her. "I didn't know everything that had happened between my parents then, but I knew what I knew from firsthand experience. She had left me and I didn't want any part of him."

In the theater she had been telling the truth, "It took some time but I planned it out and got myself free. I used what he was afraid I didn't have against him. So for all intents and purposes I've been alone since I was twelve."

Horrified was the expression easily read on his face. Whatever he had been expecting to hear, she had just outdone it. She only wished there wasn't more.

"I don't know what to say. I don't even know where to begin," his head tilted forward, his gaze on his feet. The white knuckle grip he had on the edge of the table had her attention.

"I just-"

"Please don't Vince, there's more," she had cut him off before he said something he might regret once he knew.

"More?"

She nodded, "Unfortunately."

Orwell took one last moment to memorize his face; she stood and stepped towards him. Vince Faraday was an attractive man. The blue eyes, the blond curls, and the fit arms; she took in the whole of him, and the little pieces too. The fine lines around his eyes, the freckles on his shoulders, she was grateful he had shrugged out of his hoodie. The last thing he'd said to her had even had that hint of an accent, a strange lilt to his words that belied his local birth. One day she had hoped to ask him about it.

One day may not come for them but she was going to fight for it.

The monumental truth had arrived briefly she wondered why he hadn't put it together himself. She supposed he had a blind spot for the people he cared about. A trait she didn't possess and come to think of it neither did Max.

"Vince," he looked up, their toes were touching now. There was too much in his eyes for her to process, it wasn't fair, she swallowed back her nerves.

She didn't want to put that name together with 'Father', it was wrong, but it was the truth. "Vince, the man in the story is Peter Fleming.

The words didn't quite register at first. The connections were coming together as she watched.

"Wait, no," he shook his head, rocking forward slightly as his fingers clenched tighter around the table edge.

"Peter Fleming is Chess. He can't be your Father," she flinched as he spat out the words. Even as the horror of it dawned on him she felt him pulling away from her. This was what she had been so afraid of, the closer they got the harder she knew it would be for the both of them; it still hurt that he flinched away from her when she reached for him.

"No way, no fucking way," he was shaking his head as though he could shrug loose the ties between them.

"Vince," braver now, they had made promises to each other, and she was planning on holding him to them. _She_ stepped into _his_ personal space nudging his knees apart with her own until she stood between his legs.

"Look at me," he wouldn't meet her eyes kept his gaze moving even as she bobbed her head to catch his. "Please," panicking she resorted to touch.

Cupping her fingers around his jaw she held his head still long enough to hold his gaze.

"It's still me; I'm still Orwell, your Orwell." Vince still shook his head no, tried to twist out of her grip, but she held firm.

"Peter Fleming broke my Mother, he tried to break me, but I chose to fight back, to fight against him. He's evil Vince," there was more she wanted to say, that she wanted to ask. Don't blame the daughter for the Father's sins; don't see the one when you looked at the other. She was still losing him though, "Come back to me," taking liberties with him she knew were not hers to do so she pressed her lips to his cheeks, his forehead; murmuring her apologies as she rubbed away the tears with her lips.

Her fingers dug into his hair pulling sharply on the strands when she heard his curse against _his_ name.

They stood there an unmarked amount of time. Her face pressed close to his, his fingers still curled into the table.

And then it hit.

Vince Faraday sat back, Orwell watched her fingers lose their grip and waited for the moment he would say good-bye. At least she hoped he would say good-bye, maybe they could still work together on occasion; or something.

"He did all of that to you when you were twelve," she frowned, where was the good-bye? Where was he taking this?

Catching up took a minute, she nodded, "Technically he had been distant and uninterested since my birth, he'd had no use for infants. But I became aware at twelve and left for good the morning after I turned fourteen." Best morning of her life.

This moment had taken a surprising turn.

"No child should experience that at the hands of their parents," she could have sworn he was mumbling under his breath about tests he would like to run on Fleming. Confused, she opened her mouth to ask what was going on when he interrupted her.

"I'm sorry you went through that. I'm sorry you had to keep the secret so long," her jaw dropped again. His words were unexpected to say the least.

"You don't hate me," she hated that she asked in a whisper.

The groan startled her, he let go of the table and wrapped her in one of his body numbing hugs.

"You're not him," he whispered in her ear. She didn't know how badly she needed to hear that until he'd said it.

This time there was no hesitation when she returned the hug, she didn't want him to let go; didn't think she would any time soon.

"We're going to get him," another promise for her. She smiled returning it in kind. Together she was pretty sure they could do anything.


	5. Apologies

That first morning, _after_, he had had trouble concentrating. His thoughts had been scattered focused on everything she had told him and his imagination filled in what she hadn't. Then there had been the staring. Orwell, Jamie, he corrected, it probably wouldn't stick. The name didn't suite her. No, she was his Orwell; more scattered (inappropriate) thoughts.

So he had stared at her and let his mind spin, trying to reconcile who she was with _who_ she _was_. There had been a few awkward moments to be sure, she would look and his eyes would crash into her. The tension hadn't prevented him from staring.

How could she be Orwell, his Orwell, and also be Jamie, _his_ Jamie.

"You look like a man drowning in heavy thoughts," Max slapped him on the shoulder, stepping next to him. The view off the dilapidated pier wasn't much but it was a needed change of scenery. For days he had holed himself up in his 'gym'. This was the first night he hadn't passed all the hours combing the streets as the Cape.

Slipping out before Orwell got back from wherever she went every Thursday night; he had made his way to the Carnival. Raia and Rollo had welcomed him with loud voices and a too full cup of what Rollo liked to pass off as alcohol. The moonshine was closer to battery acid than a drink, but he had drunk his share and welcomed the accompanying buzz. Too soon though the room had started to spin and he had abandoned the festivities.

"How's it going Max," Vince was in no mood for company, much less inquisitive company but Max didn't look eager to leave.

"I'm well my friend," Max leaned forward, resting his arms on the unsteady railing separating them from the harbor. "It is you who looks a little rough around the edges."

Vince cut a look over at Max. He hadn't been sleeping all that week or much, "Can't sleep."

Unsurprised Max nodded, "And where is our lovely young Julia this evening?"

Cringing, Vince rolled the name over in his head, 'Julia' he had blurted it out that afternoon when the two areas of his new life had collided. 'Julia', 'Jamie', and 'Orwell' how was he supposed to know who she was?

"She's out," as excuses went it was weak. Max turned towards him, Vince could feel the assessing gaze.

"Trouble in paradise," Max asked. Well so much for a carefree evening. There a part of him the slightly drunk part that wanted to tell Max what was wrong; just spill everything about Orwell and Fleming and Jamie.

The part of him that was sober enough to know that it would be a disastrous managed to keep his mouth shut.

"No one is ever what they seem are they," Vince murmured unable to stop the flow of words. Glancing over Max let his eyebrows rise as his curiosity was piqued.

"I suppose none of us here are really who we are," Max waved his hands out before him. "What separates us from them is that we do not hide the fact that we live a life of illusion."

That made sense. Weren't they all covering up for something? Wasn't he hiding Orwell from the carnival?

"But what happens when the illusion crumbles and what's left is-"he struggled for the right word-"unexpected."

With a grimace Max looked back over the water, "I am surprised at you Vince. Honestly how much of the Cape, was already in you. Illusions, the best illusions, are the ones that wear so much more reality as to seem real. So what's to say that the illusion isn't more real than the reality?"

The illusion could be just as real; the thought stripped away the last bit of haze lingering from the alcohol. Was he so successful as the Cape because the Cape was part of Vince, or even more shocking was he successful as Vince because the Cape had always been there?

Was Orwell just a front for Jamie or was that lost girl just a part of the puzzle that made up Orwell.

Did it matter?

"That girl of yours is hiding something." Max had not asked the question; Vince supposed he knew it to be a fact.

"Yeah," Vince agreed. The weight of the past week had finally settled on his shoulders.

"None of us are perfect Vince," Max grinned, Vince couldn't help but give a weak smile in return.

"But that one," he shook his finger, "That one secrets or no, she's a good one."

Everything she had done for him, meant to him, summed up to perfection. "Yes she is," Vince agreed without hesitation. The assessment surprised him though, Max had never given the impression that he liked or disliked Orwell.

"She's kept you alive more than once," and that was an irrefutable truth, "And I don't know what she's hiding-"

Vince felt the lie, just a hint of it, Max Mallini the clever bastard knew more than he implied. Not surprising really. Max always seemed to know more than he let on.

-"But I imagine it would not change anything she's done because really who are we if not someone made up of the actions and answers every day of our lives."

This was why Vince had come to Carnival. A part of him had known he would find answers here. Max had never been one to hold his tongue and while often unsolicited; his opinion had more often than not been spot on.

"I suppose you're right," Max laughed nodding in agreement

"Yes Vince my boy I am," the slap to his should this time ended in a squeeze to his shoulder long enough to show the affection that could sneak out of Max when the mood suited him.

"Thanks Max," the friends he had made, while not the sort he had ever imagined having, was proving the best he had ever had.

"You're welcome my friend, now get home and fix whatever is wrong with your girl."

That wasn't the first time Max had alluded to _her_ as his but this time it meant something. Orwell, she would probably always be Orwell to him, was his more than he cared to admit. She shouldn't be his, shouldn't, but was. The long walk back gave him time to clear his head. There was just enough alcohol in his blood to warrant handing his keys to Max who was kind enough to promise to not lose them for very long.

"Hey," he had expected her to be asleep; it was way later than even some of their longest excursions ran. But the soft glow from the monitors lit up her profile; she had waited up.

"I didn't think you were coming back," she stood moving to his board, eyes on the tenuous connections he had made. There had been just enough doubt in her voice, he knew she deliberately not said tonight or at all, and that pissed him off. Angry at himself for spinning her in even more circles, the shame burned up his throat, if she would just look at him he was sure she would see how sorry he was. Her back was firmly turned away from him though; he was not getting off that easy.

His jaw clenched, he should and would grovel if need be. "I'm sorry you thought that, I'm sorry you doubted me," he sighed, "It's not like I haven't given you a reason to this week, but still-"he moved further into the room-"I'm sorry."

A heartbeat and then another and finally Orwell turned towards him, the long desk separating them. For all the staring he had done in those first twenty-four hours he not looked closely at her since. She'd lost weight, weight that she couldn't afford to lose, the dark circles under her eyes made him wince.

He had done that, had pushed her away and she had suffered. There was so much he couldn't fix in his life, but this, _them_ he could fix. Leaning forward, resting his fisted hands on the table he gave her a sad smile, "I really don't know how you put up with me."

Shaking his head with a chuckle he counted it a small victory that her eyes had gone wide with shock, she clearly had not been expecting that. He pressed on encouraged, "I mean we say things, we mean them, honesty and trust and all that good stuff and what do I do huh?"

Playing down everything was the only way he could think of to keep his cool. There too many emotions churning up his gut, this was too important for him to mess up. For the first time since she'd told him, he looked at her and _she looked right back_, no flinching, chin rising with her pride he knew she was daring him to break it off to push her away; she was clearly preparing herself for the rejection even after his candid words.

Not once did his gaze falter he did however shrug, "I don't think I'll ever get used to calling you Jamie."

Vince dug deep, deeper than he had in a long time, he blamed the not quite there alcohol, but he managed to just hold in the laughter. Her expression was priceless though, the jaw was opening and closing, she clearly couldn't decide what to say and seeing her so flustered was nothing short of wonderful. Too put together was the creature before him.

While she was still off guard he moved around the table and closed the distance between them. Still reeling she said nothing as he took her gently by the arms. A lock of hair fell across her cheek as he turned her. Without hesitating he brushed it aside, he couldn't ignore how she reacted to the touch, leaving his hand on her cheek he smiled when she leaned into him.

"You're my Orwell," he had done it, put it out there, and there was no going back. Big eyes looked at him, shock and something else swam in the glassy gaze, but it was the truth. She was his, in every way that mattered, Jamie, Julie, Orwell, whatever name she was his friend, his partner, simply _his_.

Orwell blinked up at him; Vince might have let his heart skip a few beats when he saw the tears slip down her cheeks.

"Honest?" there was more she no doubt wanted to ask, but so much was summed up in that one word.

Vince nodded, "Honest. You're here with me, you've got my back and I've got yours one hundred percent. That's all that matters."

Later, much later he knew he might come to regret the words, that promise, but Vince quieted the little voice of warning; if and when that became a problem he would deal with it then. Right now he was living as best as could day by day.

The arms that wrapped around his waist and held on tight might be far more pressing problem. That worry he also pushed aside; he was getting good at denying the hard things. Instead he wrapped his own arms tight around her; she was so tiny.

"You can still call me Orwell," it was muffled against his chest but he caught the gist of her words. Chuckling, he leaned back enough to peek down at her. The first real smile he had seen on her in some time brought out his own.

Still smiling, she licked her lips, the action did not go unnoticed, and the little voice he had successfully locked away for months was quick to break open its lock whispering of the doors that still had yet to be opened between him and the girl in his arms. Those doors had to stay closed they had too.

_Too late_ that little voice whispered.

"I'm glad you came home Vince," had she known what Pandora's Box she might have maybe accidentally opened her response might have been different.


End file.
